


Leave Me In The Dark

by hystericalselcouth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 04:25:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3636648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hystericalselcouth/pseuds/hystericalselcouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He moved to sit down next to Sherlock. Both stared at the white wall in front . It was much like when they were younger, the two brothers staring at the fireplace in their living room, the last Christmas they had spent together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own anything, I make no profits.   
> TRIGGERING, TURN AROUND NOW.

"Threat level has been raised to A, sir. Protocol D has been initiated."  
"Marvellous."

"Well, Sherlock, I'm stuck here."  
"Why, has Downing street finally run out of cakes?"  
Mycroft smirked. "Something like that."  
John arrived with tea and set the pot on the table. Pouring Mycroft a cup, he asked, "So, the Premier of China is dead, then?"  
"Oh, no, the plan turned out to be futile."  
"Oh," was John's reply.  
"How long are you going to be here? Why can't you just leave?" came Sherlock's pleas through the screeching of his violin.  
"Believe me, I want to leave just as quick as you want me."  
Mycroft's phone buzzed in his pocket. Excusing himself, he walked out of the flat to receive the call.  
"Harry."  
"Holmes, lets just say things aren't going well. Your mole has opened up, but the threat's still there. Stay where you are, don't move."  
"I seriously doubt I'll be able to do that. I'm at his place."  
Sitting in his cabin at Thames House, Harry winced in sympathy.  
"I'll see what I can do, my best man is on it."  
"Quinn? Well, lets hope that American blonde doesn't shag him while he's at it."  
"No," Harry's voice turned cold, "she won't."

Sherlock had a cheeky smile on his face as he brought the platter in. When Mycroft and John saw what was on it, both rolled their eyes simultaneously.  
"Sherlock!" Their chorused answer consisted of one voice which was embarrassed and another, which was irritated and annoyed.  
With a red face, John excused himself and snatched the plate before it could reach the table.  
"Cake, Sherlock?" John was practically seething.  
Sherlock didn't say anything, his grin only growing as he took the plate back and proceeded to serve everyone a slice.   
I was quite awkward, three plates, one with two slices of cake sat before the three men. Sherlock rocked expectantly in his chair, Mycroft glared at Sherlock and John simply sat there is plain embarrassment.  
"Oh, bloody well, then." John moved to eat his slice.  
Sherlock proceeded to eat his.  
Mycroft did the same.  
After the stony cold end to the dinner which-as per Holmes standards- had otherwise gone well, each retired to their assigned areas of the flat. Sherlock had decided to camp out on the couch for the night after being persuaded by John, and John had given Sherlock's room to Mycroft.

* * *

 

Sherlock looked up from his laptop at around two in the morning. He had been secretly updating his blog on the 281 types of tobacco, but the faint noise coming from his room distracted him.  
After trying hard to ignore the sound, he failed to push it to the back of his mind. He didn't know how to react. He had read the stories, but he didn't think it would affect him so.  
He did feel a little uncomfortable. Not knowing what to do, he breathed in deeply and continued to tap away at his laptop.  
The retching died out after a few minutes, and the night returned to its deadly silence, pierced only by the mechanical rhythm of a tapping at a keyboard.

* * *

 

Mycroft sighed deeply. His brother was sitting cross legged on the former's bed, head hung low. Mycroft couldn't make out if his eyes were closed or not. He took off his coat and pulled a chair up to his brother's still form.  
"Is it John?"  
There was no sign of any response from Sherlock.  
"Mrs. Hudson?"  
Still no change.  
"Lestrade?"  
The same.  
He placed two fingers under Sherlock's chin and pushed his brother's face upwards to meet his eyes. Sherlock seemed...tired, rueful. Mycroft's demeanor softened and bent his head to the left a little bit.  
He moved to sit down next to Sherlock. Both stared at the white wall in front . It was much like when they were younger, the two brothers staring at the fireplace in their living room, the last Christmas they had spent together.  
Sherlock's stretched, pale face turned to face Mycroft.  
"The cake.....I'm sorry," he choked out.  
It was Mycroft's turn to let his facade fall.  
Neither said a word.  
The two brothers did not know how long they sat there in silence for. Eventually, Mycroft stood up and called his brother a cab. In less than seven minutes, he had occupied his brother's place on the bed and sat in solitude. A few minutes later he turned the lights off and lay down on the bed.  
He did not sleep.


	2. Let It Under Your Skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DEFINITELY TRIGGERING  
> READ WITH CAUTION

_Mycroft, age 16._

Mycroft wished it had started another way, in some pure, innocent act of self-improvement. No, it had started with envy, unabashed envy. He was envious of his brother. He simply could not comprehend his brother’s lean and mass-less limbs to be a natural and normal sight, that the two brothers shared the same genes. He secretly admired his brother’s spoilt refusals to eat the last course of meals, Mycroft often wondered if he had another reason for doing so. He envied the pale skin and the long, artistic fingers which seemed to caress instead of touch. He envied the shallow outline of the bones his brother flaunted when they went out to swim. Mycroft felt jealousy pinch when Sherlock continued to wear his own clothes for years and Mycroft’s thrice-handed down garments. He envied how his old t-shirts hung loosely off his brother’s sharp, bony shoulders and how his thin arms stuck out from his old, long, wide sleeves for his larger limbs. He caught his mother remarking, lost in nostalgia, of how the plump Mycroft outgrew his clothes every six months. Innocent reminiscing of a mother turned to cruel, twisted jibes when it reached Mycroft’s ears. He found a heavy, ill feeling settle down and fill him during the second half of the day while the first half was spent trying to curse away the decaying ache in his stomach. He felt grease and dust mix and layer his skin, finding consolation in a good scrub each morning. He felt heavy, he felt large. He didn’t know what to do with himself. It was awkward, standing among people and talking, feeling a heavy double-chin bulge. His shoulders always felt thick and sticky, his arms always seemed to push against his chest. His stomach grumbled softly half-way through the lunch-break. It wasn’t an empty, harrowing sort of grumble, it was a churning of mass in his stomach. He tried to ignore it and carried on reading, but the rumble wouldn’t die down. He felt slightly sick inside. He opened his lunch box but shut it after a long, surveying glance. He then moved on to a smaller box, filled with a handful of fruits. He tried a grape, but finding it too sour, moved on to the apples. Before he knew it, he was devouring his last slice of fruit and then berating himself for eating too fast. He finished the fruit and put the box back in. He wasn’t feeling well enough to eat anymore anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is horribly structured, the grammar is terrible, there's no hint of a plot to this, most probably is factually inaccurate of schooling during what would have been Mycroft's time, but hell, I had to write something down.


End file.
